An Ocean Breeze
by silverivy13
Summary: America recounts the war that helped him realize his biggest mistake. -UsUk-


**A/N: My take on a World War IIIish future, if the Cold War hadn't ended.**

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The ocean's wind was blowing hard that day.

That was the first thought that crossed America's mind, as he walked slowly through the field of golden grasses. It was where he had chosen to face England, on that day hundreds of years ago. The day when he had begun to understand what he was. Who he was. It was probably that day that made things so hard now.

England had done everything he could to teach America of the world. He had done his best, even though he had never raised a country before, even though his own experience as a child was so terrible, even though he had been struggling so hard to maintain his dominance over Europe at the time. America had understood that. Yes, from the moment he had seen England covered in wounds that day, with the same smile on his face, he had understood what his brother was giving up for him. But he could never bring himself to thank him for it. If he had done that, it would have made everything England had done for naught. Because that would mean America knew of war, knew of the pain and violence worldwide, knew of all the dark black things that England had been so scared would taint his wonderfully pure white little brother.

It wasn't as if things had been easy for America either. He had always felt the pain of his native people as the Europeans steadily flowed into his country. But he hadn't said a word, hadn't done a thing about it. After all, they were England's people. Surely, he had thought, if they were from England, they can't be bad.

And so, he never said a word about his own suffering.

But the days he had spent with England, days filled with fairytales and picnics and games and laughter, were the best of his life.

And when he went back there, to that field, it was as if nothing had changed. As if he could still hear that voice calling out to him. As if the ocean breeze still brought forth the noise of a ship in the harbor. As if England was still waiting for him.

But the faint smile that those memories put on his face gradually faded as the most recent wars flashed through his mind.

They had been terrible. One after the next, as one by one, more and more countries fell.

Blood. Enough to stain the oceans a dark crimson red, enough to connect all the countries in the world, enough to drown them all.

Pain. Cries of misery and agony echoing through the skies, drowning out the birds until they no longer chirped each morning.

Violence. The very thing that stained each and every country in the world a dark pitch black. The thing that stained those beautiful green eyes.

And death. Billions and billions of deaths.

America had been no stranger to war. None of them had been. It was such a normal occurrence in history that it had never truly been something different.

But these were. They were so… cruel. As if both sides were truly trying to destroy each other. There had been world meetings, of course. They had tried to resolve things. But no one could go against their boss. It simply wasn't possible. Voices of reason were quickly drowned out by the inevitable: that they had to obey.

And so, the world meetings grew smaller and smaller. Less and less nations came. And for the first time in hundreds of years, it happened: a nation died.

It had been so sudden. One moment he were there, sitting next to Germany, just like always, and the next, gone.

Shock was the result. It took a moment for what happened to register with the others. And then it was followed by the outraged, heartbroken screams of Germany and Romano.

To this day, America could still hear their cries of fury, as all heads had turned to the one vacant seat at the meeting. Russia's.

From that day on, it was war. And with the weapons that nearly all the nations had now, it was worse that that. It was mass genocide.

And one by one, countries disappeared. After North Italy, it began with the smaller ones. The countries who had refused to ally with Russia, the countries allied with the wrong side. The countries who swore to not enter the war at all.

America could still remember the day he went to England. The day that England was already at the airport, as if knowing America would come. He had needed to tell him, needed to see him, needed to just be with England. Before he would have to do the inevitable.

It had been a silent drive to England's house outside of London. The rain had begun to fall from the gray skies, as thunder rumbled loudly overhead, foreshadowing what was surely to come later. At his house, neither had said a word as they both got out of the car and went inside, sitting down at the kitchen table. England silently began to prepare a pot of tea; the only thing he could do to keep calm.

"England," America had said finally, "You know why I'm here, don't you? You know what I have to do, right?"

England froze, hands still holding the teapot. America could see his back stiffen, as the nation slowly nodded in agreement.

"I know." He had replied quietly, as his shoulders began to tremble. "It can't be helped, but…" His voice trailed off, and suddenly, he spun around to face America, an expression of anguish on his face. His mouth opened, as so many words formed in his throat, unable to escape his lips.

"...why you?' He had finally whispered, so quietly, so very quietly that America almost hadn't heard him. And small crystal drops formed inside of his beautiful emerald eyes and began to fall.

It was the first time America had seen him cry since his revolution.

He had stood, had walked to England, and had hugged him. And as England's hands had reached around, his fingers digging into his back, it was impossible for America to tell who was the one that was shaking. And he had whispered the response that his boss had gave him just a few days earlier.

Who else was to defeat Russia but America?

America didn't see England again for years after that.

The years ticked by, as the wars continued, as billions died, as countries fell.

And as the end of the war was drawing near, and America's allies became fewer and fewer, he found himself thinking about something he had never really thought about it.

When he realized it, it was on the remains of a battlefield, just a few months before the last bomb of the war ended it.

This time, the ocean's breeze only carried the stench of blood and rot.

An empty field of dead grass surrounded him, the once-golden leaves now a dirty rusted brown. He was covered in wounds and his whole body ached, something he knew Russia felt as well. But as his thoughts drifted back to his fondest memories, his chest throbbed as well.

For a moment, all he could think was Am I dying? But not long after that, he realized. His chest hurt because of who he was thinking of. Because of England. Because of his food, because of his country, because of his laughter, because of his smile.

Because America loved him.

And the second he realized it was the moment he realized it was all too late.

And his legs began to carry him to there, as a tiny voice in the back of head screamed with all it had: "Danger!"

America had always been a little dense. Others often noticed his feelings before him. This time was no different.

America had to use his own fighter jet to get there. And by the time he did, the country was in ruins. The beautiful rose gardens had been trampled upon, the forests cut down, the beautiful cities destroyed. As he finally reached London, his tiny hope had vanished.

The city he had always loved to visit was in ruins.

So he ran with all he had. His entire body ached, his limbs were as heavy as lead, but his mind could only think of one thing.

The small house in the countryside that England had lived in was still there.

But it was empty.

A single letter sat on the kitchen table.

 _To America,_ it had read.

 _You know, it's funny. I had so many things to say, but now I can't really think of them anymore. I guess the most important thing is this: thank you. From the day we met, thank you. You may think that there's nothing you've done, but that's not true. For centuries, I had been alone and hated by others. But then I met you. I truly believe that you saved me._

 _I hope you don't blame yourself for this, even though I know you will. You've been trying your best, and I know that will prevail in the long run. I could already tell this was coming, from the moment we met at the airport all those years ago. I suppose you're wondering why I didn't say anything. It's fairly obvious, you know. What kind of brother would I be if I stopped you?_

 _...I don't really want to be your brother though. I wanted us to be a little more than that, but I suppose I won't get a chance to say this to you in person. So I'll say it now. I'm sorry I'm a little late. Please don't cry, America._

 _America._

 _I love you._

It was a long time before America had done anything, after reading it. He just sat there, motionless, trying to process everything England had said. And finally, he laughed.

"Idiot…" he whispered. "Tell me that sooner." He's quiet for a moment, before shaking his head.

"No... I'm the idiot." He sighs, looking out the window at the wilting roses that England had loved so much. "...I'm sorry." He whispered, as choking sobs began to echo from his throat. He clutched the letter to his heart and cried, as if that would bring England just a little closer to him.

The war had ended just a few weeks later.

The world was in ruins. Countries had vanished, billions had died.

But the remaining few were determined to rebuild.

As America entered the next world meeting, just a week after the final bomb had been dropped on Moscow, had had stopped. The room looked empty, and the few people there had haunted looks in their eyes. But as they all turned to him, he could see the strength in them as well.

All that had been ten years ago. Today marked the tenth year since America had arrived at England's house that day. The world was by no means repaired. But they had made progress, all lead by America. He was sure that England would have been proud of him.

As America walked through the golden field, he could feel the same emotion he had felt so many centuries ago. Love.

And the ocean breeze brought with it a tiny voice.

"Thank you."


End file.
